Losing It (11 page)

‘Yes,’ says Iris. ‘But it’s costing a huge packet.’

It hears
huge packet
and immediately puts on another couple of inches. I look down and I can see the bulge in my jeans growing and twitching violently. If you’ve ever seen a snake struggling in a muslin bag, you’ll have an idea of what I’m dealing with here. I sit at the table trying to summon as many cock-shrivelling thoughts as I can but not even the image of a naked Margaret Thatcher pole dancing or Mum and Dad shagging in my bed has the slightest effect. The monster keeps on growing. It’s bigger than it was this morning, it’s bigger than it’s been all day. When I woke and discovered my new, improved length, I thought that was it: I’d no idea it was just my starter for ten. And now it’s not only bigger and thicker, it’s fully erect and about as flexible as an iron bollard. Unless I ease down my zipper, it’s going to burst out of my jeans like the Incredible Hulk from his shirt.

I decide to get up and clear out the room as fast as I can. As I stand, I try to cover my embarrassment with my hands, but they just aren’t big enough for the job and now it looks like I’m trying to hold it. And anyway, the minute I rise, they’ve all seen it. Minnie’s glasses fall off her nose but she rams them back in an instant while Doris licks her lips like a famished wolverine and I can feel Aggie’s claw again, though this time it’s not on my thigh. ‘Oh, my dear God,’ Father Patrick says, as Iris mounts her
zimmer and starts to shuffle around the table towards me. There’s nothing for me to do now but to run for the door and the safety of the hall. They’re like Daleks – they can’t follow me up stairs. I prise Aggie’s claws from my voluminous bulge and push past Minnie and Doris and make for open floor. But now it’s like the room has suddenly expanded and the door is hundreds of metres away and behind me are the zimmer frames, rattling like Triffids on the attack and a glance over my shoulder confirms that the women are closing in fast. It looks like a scene they cut from Day of the Dead because it was way too scary and now the cry goes up, ‘Get him, girls!’

I don’t stand a chance. I hadn’t noticed my bed had been brought downstairs but there it is, in the middle of the room and Aggie is throwing me down upon it, a slice of Battenberg doing for her what a can of spinach does for Popeye. Like sex-starved succubi, they rip off my clothes until I lie there naked and vulnerable, with that awful thing sticking straight up between my legs like a fleshy belisha beacon, flashing pink and purple as she works the foreskin up and down. Then I hear ominous splashes, the sounds of a succession of objects being dropped into water. Straining to look up, I see a row of wine glasses sitting on the sideboard, each containing a set of false teeth. Father Patrick is removing his own now, as Minnie, Doris, Aggie and Iris, dressed only in bright red bloomers, their withered tits pointing south, stand at each corner of the bed, grasping an arm or a leg so tightly that it hurts. Father Patrick is taking off his shabby jacket and undoing his dog collar. Doris, dribbling from a corner of her puckered mouth, makes a sudden grab for my cock but Father Patrick shoves her back, much too roughly. ‘Not so fast, lady,’ he growls. ‘Wait your fucking turn.’

He turns to give me a sickly smile. Then he looks up and down my helpless, prostrate body and his eyes, fixing upon my cock, light up, they really do: bright pink and blood red. For what I am about to receive, he says, as he cranes over my helpless body, his
cracked, thin lips opening wider, and then wider still…

I open my eyes suddenly to find that Mum has hold of one of my arms and Dad has the other. ‘He’s awake!’ Mum says, as she and Dad let go of my limbs, which she says were flailing about all over the place. My eyes are sticky, I feel like I’m floating on a leaky waterbed and my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on sandpaper.

‘Looked like you were f-f-fighting with a monster, old son,’ Dad says, as he pours something cold into a glass.

I take a sip of chilled lemonade while Mum shakes a thermometer before popping it under my tongue.

‘A monster!’ Dad says again and reflexively I jerk up my knees, hoping to disguise that monstrous erection.

Oddly, there’s no sign on their faces that they’ve just discovered that their son has suddenly grown the biggest, thickest and most ungovernable penis known to man. With my knees up, Mum can’t see the movement of my hand which is making exploratory moves beneath the sheets. I’m expecting to find it coiled up on its two big pink cushions, sleeping like a well-fed anaconda, but my fingers find no sign of it at first. I wonder if it has taken itself off hunting somewhere. Then I do find it, well, not it as such, but the cock I had known and worried about for so long, the cock I had thought was so abnormal but now feels reassuringly normal, if still very much on the small side. Dad wipes my forehead with a cold, wet flannel. ‘We were worried about you, old son,’ he says. ‘That was a high old f-f-fever you were running.’

A fever?

‘But he’s all right now,’ Mum says after she’s read the thermometer. ‘The doctor says you can get up in a day or two, but St Saviour’s won’t want you back just yet. Not if you’ve just had a nasty strain of the flu.’

Flu?

Thank God.

I have a long cold drink and I go straight back to sleep and this time, there are no more dreams.

C
HAPTER
9

Stuck in the Middle With You

‘It’s fucked.’

Some sheep have ambled across the meadow to see us.

‘How do you know it’s fucked?’

They huddle in the corner of the dry stone wall and watch us.

‘I can see it’s fucked.’

On the ridge high above, ramblers in bright jackets are looking at us through binoculars.

‘How’s it fucked?’

The sheep start bleating, possibly offering advice.

‘What sort of fucked is it this time?’

‘Is it carburettor fucked?’

A distant rambler wearing red is pointing, just possibly at a loose spark plug lead.

‘Or alternator fucked?’

More bleating, which may translate as fuel line fucked?

‘Or out of petrol fucked?’

Faruk stares at lumps of metal, plastic bottles of liquid, some wires, tubes and what is clearly the battery. ‘I can’t say, exactly,’ he says. ‘Not at this stage.’

‘Then how do you know it’s fucked?’

Faruk ducks out from under the bonnet and slams it shut. Peevishly, I think.

‘It won’t go,’ he says.

‘Brilliant,’ Diesel says.

Seventeen years of living in a flat above a garage owned by his family and now operated by his brother have yet to equip Faruk with a mechanical mind. He’s tried to mend the car before, when it broke down on the Chatsworth estate, where its two-tone grungy paint job and flying fin made an exciting contrast
for anyone photographing the big house behind it. He couldn’t do anything with it then, though he did manage to dismantle a few parts. Now, like last time, we’ll be at the mercy of the AA, who can take anything up to five hours to arrive, depending on how far we got before we broke down and what more-urgent jobs he’s got on that day. The AA is Abdullah Aslan, Faruk’s brother. The brother who was really good about helping us out with the car, completing Diesel’s bonkers custom job and getting it on the road but who, since we’ve been driving it and breaking it, is revealing a much darker side to his character.

‘I can’t call the AA,’ Faruk says. ‘Not again. He’ll fucking kill me.’

‘You have to.’

‘Why?’

‘It is your duty.’

And so we wait, while Faruk decides whether he will risk the wrath of Abdullah.

We are not alone. For a narrow lane in the wilds of Derbyshire, a surprising number of cars have passed by, many slowing down to show a friendly interest in what we are doing. It’s almost worth pausing to enjoy Faruk cursing and hitting his head on the bonnet, while the rest of us mill around looking not quite as clued up as the sheep. It’s quite possible that some drivers have been sufficiently interested to raise the subject of our predicament with other travellers, at a petrol station a few miles down the road, and these curious motorists have driven up here to take a look for themselves.

Whatever the reason, cars have been passing us this last hour or more and though no one has actually offered to help, a great many drivers have at least wound down their window to ask what was the trouble. I suppose we might have interested them more if any of us had half a clue as to why the car had just stopped. And now, we need help. Black clouds are piling up across the distant valley tops, it only stopped raining half an hour
ago and it looks like we’re in for more. It’s late afternoon now, so if Faruk doesn’t call the AA soon, we may, like the car, be a little bit fucked.

At least I know where we are. I used to ride my BMX at astonishing speed down these steep hills until it clicked that one fast ride downwards equalled one long and tiring push back to the top. That was when I was staying with GD and Nana, at Narnia, which isn’t that far from where we’re stranded now. As it was supposed to be a day out in aid of my recuperation from the flu, I got to choose our direction and we’re here because this place for me, is one with the best memories. Or it had been before this happened.

But I had a feeling the day might go something like this when I got up and saw it was pissing down with rain. Raining hard enough to make staying indoors and watching Jeremy Kyle or even Bargain Search an attractive proposition. So how did I end up on a bleak hillside half-expecting to spend a cramped, cold night in the Green Dragon? Mainly, that was down to Clive. ‘What ole BJ needs is a breath of country air,’ he’d said to Diesel, as we finished a plastic bottle of strong cider in my room last evening. Clive more than anyone knows how closeted I’ve been this last week (because he’s my neighbour, not because he’s closeted himself).

We’d take a trip into the country, never mind Faruk’s brother saying there were one or two minor adjustments to be made before we could take the car out. Everyone wanted a day in the country. Faruk and Clive had been talking about going somewhere new in the Green Dragon ever since it had became uncomfortably recognisable in town, following an embarrassing incident when the car broke down by some trendy cafe bars, where the city’s poseurs were sitting outside, preparing themselves for a night’s clubbing.

I had been lucky enough to be recovering from the flu just then, but from what I hear, there had been some posing in the
Green Dragon too. Diesel, Faruk and Clive – shades on, windows down, music pumping – had been cruising around, trying hard to impress the girls at some kerb-side tables, when the Dragon chose to have its latest breakdown. It hadn’t seemed too serious at first – all that was lost was a little cool as Diesel and Clive pushed it along the street before Faruk let out the clutch. The real injury came when a year 9 chode on a BMX decided it would be extremely funny to tip his McDonald’s super-sized cola through Faruk’s open window, managing to soak Faruk and Diesel and even to wet Clive in the back too, before he rode off, laughing like an evil puppet on a seaside pier.

Watched closely by the crowd at the kerb-side tables, who all stood up at once to get a better view, the car lurched forward as Faruk attempted to give chase, but something had happened to the gearbox and he was unable to get the stick out of first. So now they chased the kid on the bike at no more than five miles an hour, with the kid having to hang back and pedal really slowly, still cackling manically while he stuck up his middle finger and shouted obscenities. Diesel reckons it took about half an hour for the car to kangaroo to the end of the street, where the kid got bored and pedalled off and where the three Horsemen could no longer hear the people standing outside the cafe laughing themselves stupid and applauding wildly.

Diesel had called back, ‘Thank you, we’re here all week.’ But it was no good, about a year’s worth of street cred had been squandered that night. So it was more than a selfless concern for my respiratory system which had prompted the idea of a jaunt up country. It wasn’t safe for that stupid car to be seen within three miles of the city centre, very probably a lot further.

However, Clive had been dead right, I needed to get out. I needed to escape from the foetid atmosphere of my bedroom, where the air was even more noxious than usual. It has sometimes crossed my mind to keep a caged canary, for the same reason miners did, down the pits. You’d know that the gaseous
mix of stale breath, seminal fluid and curried farts had reached dangerous levels when the canary fell off its perch, or turned green. I had spent way too much time in such conditions and I was ready for a lungful of God’s clean air. I felt like I had been banged up in that room for five years, not five days.

But even five days is a fuck of a long time to be stuck in one place, and having kindly taken an interest in me so far, you’re probably wondering whether I spent this time profitably, or just wanking? Good question. Well, I’d spent the first post-fever days in bed, not feeling much, except for myself, of course. Then I had started reading some books that Nana had left for me before she and GD returned to Narnia, her treatment over for the moment at least.

It was worth having some down time from the Xbox to know that I was making progress with my grand design to impress Rosalind Chandler, if that was still an attainable objective, of course. I read more than I have ever read before, which wasn’t hard and I read books which I would never have thought of reading myself, which I imagined would be hard, but wasn’t. I’m not saying I actually finished them, but I read enough to keep up my end if I ever had to talk about them. That said, I still found time to become a highly competent would-be contestant of Countdown, could estimate within £5,000 what a two bedroom maisonette in South Norwood would fetch at auction three years ago and became word pretty much perfect in Season Eight of The Simpsons.

Also, like an eighteenth century king holding his levee (I’m expecting a B in History), I entertained visitors to my boudoir. In this way, I’d been able to catch up on what had been occurring while I was away, if not with the fairies, then with the frightening phantasms of my fevered imagination. (Fevered dreams are the worst – they’re uncannily realistic and often repetitive too. I’m haunted by the thought of repeating my experiences with the toothless, sex-crazed crones of my nightmares – who have all,
terrifyingly, popped their grey heads around my bedroom door to ask how am I doing. Not being nearly so old as I had made them out to be, Mum’s friends Aggie, Iris and even Doris have all been able to make it up the stairs easily enough, to express an unsettling depth of concern about my welfare).

But I hadn’t been completely cut off. Not all of my visitors wanted to spit out their teeth and drain me of my essential fluids. Some, like Clive, just dropped by to let me know what had been happening. And what had been happening, he said, had mostly been happening to Diesel. Clive and Faruk knew something was wrong the minute they clocked him coming out of Next with Lauren, wearing a buttoned up beige cardigan and a pair of chinos and the sort of expression that might be worn by people about to be hung, drawn and quartered in front of an enthusiastic crowd. Thinking of the public good, they had secretly followed the pair, filming them on Clive’s iPhone, which he now pulled out of his pocket and played back for me.

It is depressing viewing, though Diesel’s range of expression is actually quite impressive. Jim Carrey would struggle to match Diesel’s fast-changing repertoire of anger, frustration, flickers of hope and desolate resignation. These are all caught by Clive as he and Faruk lurk behind pillars, duck into doorways and crouch behind parked cars. Between them, they have accumulated a damning mass of evidence pointing to the disturbing and unavoidable conclusion that Diesel and Lauren Sykes are now, despite Diesel’s protestations to the contrary, fully paid-up members of the couples club.

We watch the small screen, shaking our heads, as Diesel follows Lauren into Claire’s Accessories, where he stands for five minutes by the door, contemplating suicide, it looks like. Then there are some shorter clips of Diesel and Lauren visiting New Look, Burton’s, Body Shop and River Island, outside which Lauren fishes into a bag and holds another cardigan, grey this time, up against Diesel’s chest. He says something to her, and as
a really long shot you might guess that he was making an expression of his gratitude, but personally, I think he’d wear the same expression to tell the hangman that the noose was just a little too tight.

Then they pass Burger King, where a lively argument breaks out. Diesel is pointing to something in the restaurant, the backlit image of a Double Whopper with Cheese, it could be, but Lauren is shaking her head and poking Diesel in his generous stomach. But this time Diesel isn’t letting the matter drop, and we can see him standing his ground, hands on hips, almost certainly offering Lauren his opinions of women who won’t let their men have a hamburger and fries with, perhaps, a large chocolate shake. It’s a pity Clive couldn’t get close enough to capture sound, but the dumbshow tells the whole sorry story.

After a while, Diesel has had his say. There’s a pause, while he flashes a quick smile, clearly satisfied with the irrefutable logic of his argument. Then Lauren herself says something. She appears to makes one simple, concise statement, quite loudly, to judge from the reactions of other shoppers, and then she swivels on her pink high heels and flounces off.

Diesel stays where he is for a moment, unsure of his next move. He peers in the window of Burger King, looks around to see who is watching. Then he looks at Lauren’s retreating figure, disappearing down the aisle of the shopping mall. He takes one last loving glance through the window, where a man eating a large hamburger eyes him with deep suspicion, and then turns, sighs, it looks like, and trots off after Lauren. It’s a dreadful sight, something a man shouldn’t be asked to witness.

But even this isn’t as nauseous as the scene which follows, which features Diesel and Lauren, differences clearly settled in Lauren’s favour, feeding the ducks in the park. Diesel passes Lauren a piece of bread, Lauren throws it to the ducks the way girls throw things, which is badly, and they both laugh, before wrapping themselves in a big hug and then we see Diesel giving
Lauren a truly sick-making kiss. There’s no excuse for this. He doesn’t even have his hand on her arse. It is sick, and not in a good way.

Having suffered this horrendous slice of bliss-porn, I shouldn’t really have been surprised when I found myself squashed in the back seat with Diesel and Lauren, headed for a day out in the country with my three best mates and a gabby cow who will probably spoil it for all of us. Nobody is actually saying ‘who invited her?’ though it’s the question on everyone’s mind, despite the fact that we all know the answer – Lauren will have invited Lauren. Diesel knew this was a lads’ day out and that he’d be contravening a whole section of statutes and rules as clearly set out in our much-planned Rulebook For Being A Proper Bloke. He’ll have let her come along only under the severest duress. But so far it’s been almost, but not quite, worth it, just for the laugh we got when Diesel and Lauren turned up wearing identical hooded jackets – not hoodies, but the sort of waterproof jackets middle-aged ramblers buy from outdoors shops. ‘What?’ he’d said, when we couldn’t keep a straight face between us.

I hadn’t actually met Lauren until that moment, though I’d have recognized her arse anywhere. It’s impossible to see two water melons side-by-side on a supermarket shelf without thinking of Lauren in her green leggings. Diesel has lived in awe of Lauren’s arse for years. It’s an arse which has filled many a conversational gap in the Casablanca, though such conversations have tended to be one-sided. You either adore Lauren’s arse, like Diesel does, or are slightly frightened of it, like we are. Diesel has even talked about wanting to sculpt it and has considered the merits of various materials, from plaster of paris to Italian marble. Faruk says that somewhere on the internet will be a forum for big bottom fans, run by someone with spelling just like Diesel’s.